


And Peace

by anr



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-16
Updated: 2007-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is all just temporary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Peace

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: set sometime before _Sunday_ (3x17)
> 
> BETA: mylittleredgirl

It's Kate who originally makes the suggestion, but it's John who makes it an order: _nobody_ on Atlantis is to sleep alone tonight.

"We've suffered a heavy loss today," says Kate, walking with her towards the labs. "People are going to need reassurance; are going to want to know that others have survived with them. We should keep everyone together."

"The immediate danger might be over," says John, pacing between her desk and the door, "but we won't know for sure how bad some of the damage is until tomorrow morning. I want everyone in pairs or higher -- buddy system, if we have to -- until the engineers can give us the okay."

For morale, for safety -- Elizabeth finds their reasoning behind the decree immaterial; her only concern is that it's followed.

  


* * *

  


The mess hall is fast resembling a refugee shelter, with the control room and gate room not far behind. McKay and Zelenka have already turned one of the science labs into a temporary den. Those who have returned to quarters have done so mostly in groups of threes and fours.

Elizabeth makes sure she meets everyone's eyes -- brushes a compassionate hand over the shoulders of those who can't return her look -- and lets Chuck keep count for her as he follows her through the city. They lost thirteen men and women today -- she refuses to think this makes the head count easier.

She corners Carson in the infirmary, not liking the shadows beneath his eyes as he strips himself of latex gloves and a face mask. In the surgical area behind him, she can see Cadman helping one of the nurses pick up scraps of gauze from the floor.

There's a body still on the table, a once white sheet pulled up too high. _Fourteen_.

"Aye, Elizabeth," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I'll sleep, and soon enough. But you're to promise me the same now."

"Done," says John, surprising her. She hadn't heard him come up behind her, and that bothers her. She wonders what else she hasn't heard. "Let's go."

He has her out the door and into the nearest transporter before it occurs to her to protest. "Wait," she says, "stop. The Athosians --"

"Taken care of," says John shortly. "Ronon and Teyla are with them now."

She shakes her head, and feels a little dizzy. Concussion, maybe? She tries to remember if she was hurt during the attack. "John," she says, a speech about responsibility and accountability forming quickly in her mind. "I have to --"

"No."

The finality in his tone unsettles her, puts her on edge, and for a moment she is sure she's back in the control room, explosions rocking the floor beneath her feet, and his voice too loud over the chatter of gunfire: _Elizabeth, now!_

She dismisses the memory immediately, but when she glances down, she realises that John's still carrying his weapon and _its_ presence is not so easily put aside. Her argument dissipates.

She follows him out of the transporter.

  


* * *

  


Her quarters are uninhabitable.

"My God," she says quietly, frozen at the doorway. "What --"

"Shit," says John, "sorry." She watches him kick what might have been her chair out of the way as he steps inside. "I think I did this."

The windows are gaping holes, the walls streaked with black. Her furniture is ruined, unsalvageable. She's reminded suddenly of a building she once visited in Kosovo, right after it had been shelled. "How --"

"Grenade." He kicks something else and embers flare. He stamps them out quickly. "I was tracking a wraith through this section -- he came into here, and we fought..." He trails off. "I'm really sorry."

Inanely, she hears herself say, "it's okay."

He shakes his head. "No, no it's not. Shit." He turns back to her, and for the first time tonight she sees something other than resolve in his expression. "I'm _really_ \--"

"John, it's fine." She closes her eyes briefly, and thinks. There's still so much she hasn't done yet, hasn't checked, doesn't know. Too much. "Really. I'll just sleep in my office, and --"

He laughs but it's quick and not very funny. When she opens her eyes, his resolve is returning. "Nice try," he says, "c'mon."

  


* * *

  


The window in John's room is cracked but not shattered, his belongings strewn but not destroyed.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, as they pick their way through the chaos, the door sliding shut behind them. "Wasn't expecting company."

"It's fine." She stops beside the bed and watches as he paces the room, peering into shadowed corners. "Another wraith?"

"Yeah."

For some reason, that makes her want to smile. "Well, at least yours are better than mine," she says idiotically, and wants to kick herself as soon as the words pass her lips.

He winces and heads toward the bathroom, using the barrel of his P90 to edge the half-open doors further apart. "I apologised for that, right?" he asks absently as he slips into the bathroom and she nods briefly.

"Several times." Now she's considering asking him to promise to never go one-on-one with a wraith in her quarters again which is _definitely_ stupid -- she knows she'd prefer a broken bed to the alternative.

When he reappears, she notices that the P90 in his grip isn't being held quite so tightly anymore and, while she doesn't necessarily relax at the sight, she does unclench her hands.

"We should sleep," she says, and he nods.

"Yeah."

  


* * *

  


John finds her some clothes to change into and lets her use the bathroom first, muttering something about needing to find the bed. As she strips off her uniform, she can hear him moving around the room outside, clearing away the worst of the mess.

The sweats he has given her are too big, even with the waist rolled down and the cuffs rolled up, but the t-shirt doubles as a night shirt well enough. When she pulls it over her head, she thinks she can smell his aftershave.

Silence falls in the other room and she heads to the door, inching it open with a cautiousness that she's not entirely sure she can justify.

John's standing near his window, staring out at the ocean, shoulders back and spine straight. His hands are clenched in fists, his features more shadowed than not; she thinks he's never looked more military than he does right now.

She feels like she's intruding, like this is something she is not meant to see.

Quietly, she slides the doors shut again and steps back, returning to the vanity. She can take a little longer.

  


* * *

  


The bed is too small for them both, a single, and she has to lie on her side. For the first time since childhood, she worries about falling out of bed in her sleep and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. In the near darkness, she concentrates on the sound of the ocean outside.

John shifts a little behind her and she has no choice but to move with him. One of his feet (accidentally) kicks hers. She wonders if he snores.

"I think it was the same one," he says.

She blinks -- they haven't said anything since they lay down, approximately fifteen minutes ago, and so far as non sequiturs go, this is pretty good. "Same one?"

"The wraith."

It takes her a moment to understand. "In our rooms?"

"Yeah." He shifts again, this time rolling over onto his other side. She tightens her grip on the mattress as it bucks beneath her. When he speaks now, his breath fans across the back of her neck. "I got here just as it was entering your room -- it must have already been through mine."

"Oh." She thinks about that. "Was it looking for something, do you think?"

He shrugs. "Maybe." His breath is warm; she can't remember the last time she shared a bed with someone. "How much do you think Elvis DVDs go for on the wraith black market anyway?"

Despite herself, she smiles. "You have Elvis DVDs?"

"No." He's smiling too -- she can hear it. "But apparently you do."

He's just teasing, she knows he is, but still. "I do not!"

"Well, not anymore --" He stops suddenly, and flinches. "Sorry."

She moves without thinking, turning over to face him. "It's okay," she says, touched by his (obviously sincere) regret for her belongings, "really."

He nods, and she's surprised to realise just how _close_ he is. Dropping her gaze, she starts to inch back but stops as his hand finds her hip under the covers and anchors her. When she glances up again, his eyes are closed, and she stares expectantly but he doesn't say anything and so neither does she.

Silence. She wonders how long it will take for him to actually fall asleep (she has reports to file, and letters to write, and her office is practically part of the control room -- she wouldn't _really_ be alone).

His thumb slips under the hem of her t-shirt, gently rubbing the soft skin above her hip bone.

She breathes in slowly, breathes out, and waits.

  


* * *

  


Every so often John's eyelashes flutter. His jaw clenches, then relaxes. His breathing is steady, rhythmic.

He's not asleep, and she knows it.

"John," she says, when she can't wait any longer.

He opens his eyes. "Not going anywhere."

She doesn't know if he's talking about her, or himself, but in the end it doesn't really matter. She huffs out a short breath and shifts so she's lying on her back. Doing so removes any semblance of space between them, and his chin brushes her shoulder while the hand that was on her waist settles on her abdomen.

It's an intimate position to be in and that, coupled with the way he is half-hard against her hip, surprises her a little. Tonight isn't meant to be about sex -- _they_ are not meant to be about sex.

She stares at the ceiling and slowly starts counting to fourteen, one name at a time.

  


* * *

  


Will Stitcher was a xenobiologist. Paula Dawson was an Air Force Major. Mohammad Khan, Lisa Winters, John Nguyen, and Eric Donovan were Sergeants; Phillipe Morrissey, Juan Sanchez, and Hiro Chen were Lieutenants. Marie Dubois and Miles Kingley were engineers.

That's eleven.

"Stop it," says John.

She tenses. "Stop what?"

"Beating yourself up." His cheek brushes her shoulder; his fingers twitch on her stomach. "No one could have expected the wraith to attack like this."

He's wrong. " _We_ should have," she says.

"Why?" He moves then, propping himself up so that he's mostly leaning over her. One of his legs slides between hers for balance, straddling her thigh.

"Because we did it," she says tiredly, staring past his shoulder. "We've _done_ it. We've sent teams to their ships, hidden in their darts. What made us think they couldn't do the same?"

She'd watched Major Dawson's puddlejumper return, on time and without incident, and she had turned back to her water salination reports, smiling, as it rose up into the 'jumper bay. She'd still been smiling when the first explosion rocked the city -- the 'jumper itself -- and it hadn't even occurred to her that this was an actual invasion until a generator on the south pier blew two hours later.

Eight wraith, secluded in the 'jumper's rear compartment and preparing to infiltrate her city and sabotage her systems, and she'd fucking _smiled_.

"Elizabeth --"

They'd picked her men and women off one by one, while she stood in the control room with her finger hovering above the self-destruct, ready to annihilate them all. McKay in one ear, asking for five more minutes, for five more seconds, and John in the other, telling her, telling her --

"-- this _wasn't_ your fault."

But it was. It was, and she has to live with that. He can absolve her and blame himself all he wants -- and she knows that he does, that he's not nearly as nonchalant as he's pretending to be -- but at the end of the day: _she should have known._

She hitches in an uneven breath and looks at him. Looks at the misplaced compassion in his gaze, and his face -- his _body_ \-- too close to hers, and suddenly (irrationally) wants to kiss him. Wants him to touch her -- _really_ touch her -- and change what she remembers of this night.

He tenses, and she wonders if she's that transparent. " _Elizabeth_ \--"

She closes her eyes. "Don't."

  


* * *

  


This is what she knows now:

At approximately ten-hundred this morning she allowed her city to be compromised. This resulted in the loss of fourteen men and women -- nine military, four civilian, and one Athosian. She is responsible for these events.

This is what she knows will happen next:

She will write her report and forward it to the SGC. The SGC will forward it to the IOA. The IOA will review her report and take appropriate steps. This may be her final strike.

She opens her eyes to find John still staring at her; he hasn't moved. She studies his features, so close to her own, and wonders when she first memorised them. He is so familiar sometimes...

His hand leaves her abdomen, fingers skimming lightly over her arm until he reaches her neck, her cheek. He plays with a lock of her hair, gently tugging at a loose curl before tucking it behind her ear. It's a curious touch, almost exploratory, so there's no reason why it should send a spike of lust straight down her spine. Absolutely no reason at all.

She bites the inside of her lip, hard.

"Sleep," he says, voice low. "We should sleep."

It's an echo of her own words from earlier, and she nods.

His knuckles brush her jaw.

"John," she says, and his name is half-invitation, half-warning; a kaleidoscope of right and wrong, of yes and no.

"I know."

When he leans in, she meets him halfway.

  


* * *

  


John kisses her lightly, his lips barely brushing hers, and she's a little surprised by how much that affects her. He pulls back too soon.

"I don't want to regret this," he says, and his tone makes her want to smile and cry at the same time. She does neither.

Shifting, she brings up her hand and traces the curve of his eyebrow, skimming a path from his temple to his chin and then back again. There's blood on the back of her wrist and she has no idea whose it is. "We won't."

Wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, she pulls him down into her kiss and slips her tongue into his mouth, reassured when he begins to touch her. Slow and gentle, his fingers seem almost cautious as they traverse her skin (like this is all just temporary, a fleeting moment). His palm smoothes down her body and slips under her t-shirt, warm calluses on her stomach, her breast, and she drags her nails through the short hairs on his nape in response.

One of them groans; she's not sure who.

They move carefully, mindful of their limited space, shifting together until she's lying on top of him, her hands in his hair, on his shoulders. Her legs part over his, hips beginning a slow grind that seems to rob him of breath, his hands drifting to her waist and gripping there tightly. His eyes are closed and she thinks this is the most vulnerable she's ever seen him look.

Time seems to slow, the universe stilling until there is nothing in motion but her, and him, and the gentle rocking of their hips. For the first time today, she feels like she's finally in control.

Opening his eyes, John moves his hands upwards, fingers catching in the hem of her t-shirt. She sits up and takes over when he reaches her upper back, pulling the soft cotton up and over her head, unsurprised when he leans up to taste the skin between her breasts, his tongue tracing invisible paths across her chest. She tips her head back as his mouth closes over her nipple, sucking gently.

Blindly she reaches for his own t-shirt, tugging it up and away from his body, before planting her hands on his shoulders and pushing hard. His mouth leaves her skin reluctantly, an almost surprised expression surfacing as she lies him down again. She kisses it away.

"I want you inside me," she breathes out, her mouth hovering over his, and something dark flashes in his eyes. He nods sharply.

Together they remove her underwear, and his boxers, the bed covers slipping away when she crawls back up his body. His eyes never leave her face as she positions herself above him, one hand on his chest for support and her other wrapping around his dick.

His hips twitch, and she feels a shudder work through her own body in response.

Guiding him to her, she sinks down with a breathless moan, her muscles tensing and holding him deep inside.

"Fuck," he grits out, eyes slamming shut. "Fuck -- _Elizabeth_."

She knows exactly how he feels.

He lets her set the pace, lets her ride him slowly, the slide of his dick inside her consuming in a way she wasn't expecting. She can't breathe properly, can't _think_ , can only _feel_ , the intensity of it all almost overwhelming, almost too much.

Hands holding tight to her hips, he comes first, jerking up beneath her, and she rocks against him greedily, finding just enough friction to trigger her own release. Heat spreads through her in waves; she trembles.

He catches her when she falls forward, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close, his mouth against her temple and his heart racing beneath hers.

She was wrong: it _is_ too much.

  


* * *

  


John rolls them to the side, their bodies separating as he does, and she tells herself she doesn't miss the feel of him inside her. His hand settles on her waist; her hand rests against his chest, fingers tangling in his dog tags.

She waits for him say something -- imagines she can _hear_ his thoughts building -- and is a little surprised when he stays quiet.

His mouth ghosts across hers briefly, an echo of a kiss.

When he pulls away, sliding out of the bed, she lets him go.

  


* * *

  


She watches him cross the room and disappear into the bathroom, soft light spilling out of the doorway. She wonders what time it is, and thinks she might finally be able to close her eyes now; maybe even sleep.

Sitting up, she reaches for the sheets that had slid away earlier, for the pillow that has almost done the same, and freezes when she sees the gun lying beneath it.

Adrenaline kicks in again, her heart beating too fast.

Water runs in the other room and she replaces the pillow carefully, looking up as John returns from the bathroom with a glass of water. She takes it from him as he stretches out on the bed behind her and sips slowly. When he's settled, she makes to hand it back to him but he shakes his head. Carefully, she places the glass on the bedside table.

Outside, the restless churning of the ocean sounds loud, sounds like a storm is coming, and she slides off the bed and sits on the floor like that action alone could stop it. _War and Peace_ is near her feet, a visible water stain on the cover, and a part of her wants to ask whether he did that himself, months ago, or if it's it just another casualty of the night.

John rolls onto his side, his hand finding its way to her shoulder. When his fingers start playing with her hair, it occurs to her that he's kept her physically close for hours now. She wonders if he's always been this tactile after a battle and she's just never noticed before.

"Justify this for me," he asks then, without preface.

"Biology. Psychology. The human condition. A base desire to embrace life after facing death. Adrenaline and release. The need to exert control in the presence of chaos, even if the only control available is the ability to choose another person and experience intimacy." It bothers her that she doesn't even have to think about her reply, that she can rattle off the cliches with the same tone of voice she'd used when ordering the city's self destruct to be engaged.

"So... we're a stereotype?" The hope underlying his words sounds strained, tired, and his hand is heavy on her shoulder now, stationary.

"Yes."

"Good."

That they're _both_ clearly lying bothers her even more. She reaches for Tolstoy.

"Elizabeth." She freezes, her fingernails barely skimming the cover of the book. "You don't have to --" An indistinct noise that might be a sigh. "You can sleep now. It's over."

There's a heartbeat of silence. Two. She collects the novel and finds his place. Clears her throat. "Chapter twenty-seven," she says. " _It was not till the evening of the 2nd of September that the tide of invasion, spreading out starwise as it did, reached the quarter_..."

She thinks of his sidearm beneath his pillow, of the bodies in their morgue, of the wraith. She knows: _it will never be over_.

A sentence later, his fingers resume their movement.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/300076.html>


End file.
